


The Unforeseen Consequence

by uglycrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Changing Perspectives, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Kink Meme, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:46:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglycrow/pseuds/uglycrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after the fall, John is doing whatever he can to keep his broken life together and failing. He finally chooses a particularly unusual course of action to work through the grief: honor Sherlock's request and tell the world that his best friend was a liar and a fraud, which begins a terrible downward spiral of self-punishment and misery. Written in response to a prompt on the Sherlock kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unforeseen Consequence

The weather was terrible that day.

Of course, if one were to press John on the issue, he would be forced to admit that he’d found the weather terrible for the past three months, two weeks and five days. One would need to press to receive such an exact date, as well; at first he would offer only a vague answer, _About three months, maybe_ , as though he could forget when the world lost all its color. He could not stop himself from keeping track of every second ticking by, as if each moment lasted an agonizing eternity. Each passing minute was another inch of the rock up the hill while John Watson struggled to find meaning in a life that was struck meaningless with the shattering of bone and a puddle of blood on cold pavement that framed skin so pale and eyes so bright they could not have possibly belonged to the all-too-human man they masqueraded as. They were ethereal and unfamiliar in their lifelessness. They could not possibly be a reality. Every tick round the clock brought him closer to the assertion that what had happened had all been his imagination and the great Sherlock Holmes was still very much alive — and every morning, he awoke to an unfamiliar flat, on an unfamiliar bed, with a table set for one.

Each new day, the rock would roll back down and stop at his feet; each new day, John would struggle to push it back up, and wonder why he even bothered trying. The kinship he’d begun to feel with Sisyphus was almost funny, in a soul-crushing sort of way. Was this really what he’d become?

The sound of the bell fixed over the cafe’s door drew the doctor from his reverie, gaze lifting from the untouched coffee cooling rapidly before him. Mycroft Holmes stepped inside and scanned the small selection of tables and chatting patrons with an air of disdain, closing his umbrella after giving it a good shake over the carpeted entryway. The look hardly shifted when his gaze settled on John, though he at least offered the man a smile in a half-hearted attempt to mask it. While he was reasonably pleasant with John, and even seemed to approve of his presence around his late younger brother before that awful day, but there had never been any speculation as to whether the not-so-minor politician thought of him as remotely close to their equal. John was just a normal, everyday person, soldier he may have been; there was nothing special about him. Not like the Holmes brothers.

If he had been someone special, perhaps he would have gotten there in time.

Mycroft seemed to catalogue every person in the cafe with them with a glance as he approached the table, finally taking a seat across from John with a stiff and well-mannered smile that the other man had wished himself capable of forgetting after not speaking a word to him these last few months. In fact, he’d not made any attempt to contact the elder Holmes since the day he’d confronted him over all that useful information he’d spilled to Jim Moriarty; even at the funeral John had avoided the other, who had only stayed long enough to watch the coffin lowered into the ground before returning to his car. The whole time he’d not even said a word, checking his phone impatiently instead. John was actually impressed that he’d kept himself from knocking the bastard on his arse back then. It had taken a great deal of restraint.  
Yet now, here they were, sitting in a cafe together with what was likely six or seven CCTV cameras focused on the place, as if nothing had ever happened. John still sort of wanted to hit him. It was a fleeting desire, at least.

“You’ve lost weight.” Hardly an impressive deduction on Mycroft’s part, and certainly not a mannerful way to begin a conversation, but John accepted it as an ice-breaker either way. “You’ve also stopped seeing your therapist — though I’m sure that’s for the best. From her notes, I get the feeling she would have _never_ understood your inner workings.”

He wished he could be surprised about Mycroft keeping tabs on him. Logically he would have given up the minute he had word of Sherlock’s face having an intimate meeting with pavement — but that wasn’t how Sherlock’s brother worked. John doubted he would have a single moment in his future that went undocumented now; such was the fate of the only friend of the world’s first consulting detective. Still, just because he was resigned to it didn’t mean he had to _like_ it; his silence communicated his irritation effectively, one hand moving to add a spoon of sugar to the coffee he already knew he would not drink. He’d always enjoyed it black before everything ended; now, it was added for comfort rather than flavor. Something about watching it dissolve into the blackness was soothing to him these days.

After allowing the weight of their reticence to hang over the table for the duration of John’s attention to his coffee, Mycroft laced his fingers together and rested his chin atop them, speaking as he would to a particularly willful child.

“You asked to see me, and here I am. What can I do for you, John?”

The veteran’s spoon clinked softly in his cup as he swirled it, eyes set firmly on the table. He’d not made any attempt at communication with Mycroft since the funeral despite receiving a text here and there: tips on job offerings should he be in need of employment - _living alone in this city can be quite a hardship_ , he’d written, as if to twist the knife in deeper - information about the activities of Moriarty’s lasting web should anything of genuine interest crop up, and the occasional and infuriating reminders to take proper care of himself. Had he any choice in the matter, John would have never even uttered the man’s name again, let alone send him a text directly... but there was no helping the fact that he needed assistance in this. He couldn’t possibly do it alone.

Mycroft’s name literally opened doors; it should be just as easy for it to change records to suit John’s fancy.

“I need your-” He all but choked on the word _help_ like a bile rising in his throat. Was this how Sherlock felt around the man? Did he ever have to ask something of his older brother? John was certain the detective would have rather cut out his own tongue. “There’s something I want you to do for me,” he settled on instead, lifting his eyes to offer the man as steely a gaze as he could muster when asking a favor. Finally, he added, “You owe Sherlock that much.”  
That seemed to pique Mycroft’s interest as much as he would permit to be visible, one eyebrow quirking a fraction of an inch.

“And what, pray tell, can I do for you, doctor?” The weight of his eyes intensified and John allowed himself to adjust to the crushing presence of it. There was no ignoring the distinct sensation of being picked apart atom by atom when a Holmes had you in his sights; it always seemed to evoke a lower brain reaction, encouraging flight. With Sherlock, at least, it had come with the flattery of knowing one’s self to be interesting enough to hold the man’s attention for longer than a fraction of a second; Mycroft’s scrutiny brought nothing but discomfort. A steadying breath was necessary before he could continue.

“Sherlock asked something of me when- When he-” Blood spreading wide from a mess of dark curls. Lifeless wrist in his hand, still warm even without the pulse of blood pumping beneath the skin. _That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note._ John shuddered almost imperceptibly and forced the memory away. “That day, he lied to me. He lied, and told me he was a fraud, and that everything that Moriarty had said was true. He _lied_ , and he told me to tell anyone that would listen that he was a fake.”

Some days he would look at his mobile and unconsciously check for texts that he would never receive again. He’d come to hate the thing. Just looking at it reminded him of his failures.

“I know he wasn’t any of those things - _nothing_ would convince me otherwise, not even Sherlock saying it himself - but I’ve decided that I’m going to do as he says,” he continued with growing strength, lifting his head in defiance as if daring Mycroft to challenge him. “I’m going to tell the world he’s a fake, just like he asked.”

He’d expected Mycroft to balk, or challenge him, or say _anything at all_ , really — but instead he simply watched him, chin comfortable against the tops of his fingers. John was compelled to continue, agitation rising in his chest like a spreading fire. There was no feeling in that gaze. There was no _remorse_ for the devastation he’d helped cause. It made the doctor’s blood boil.

“He still pops up in the papers now and then — but it’s petering out. In the end they’re just going to forget him and have a vague memory of the genius that turned out to be a fraud. That’s all he’ll be, even with the people that still wanted to believe in him. This will keep that from just vanishing, if they’ve someone new to gun after. Someone involved. Maybe it’ll even inspire some of those people that supported him to come out again just to fight me on it. And it’s what he wanted, even if it’s-” A breath as he tried to gather himself, feeling briefly scattered as he once again wondered _why_. His shoulders tensed a moment later as he reined himself in, eyes hardening. 

“These people will forget about him someday, and he wouldn’t want that. He wanted to be remembered as a fraud — and he will be, if you do this. That’s why I need you to change some records in my military history, a few modifications here and there. I _know_ you can do that.” He paused before adding darkly, “And don’t think by turning me down you’ll stop me from doing this. I’ve ways of making myself into the criminal they want me to be.”

Even with the thinly-veiled threat Mycroft said not a word, and it went on so long John was close to starting up with something particularly nasty just to end the frustrating silence before the man finally spoke, words calm and devoid of feeling.

“Punishing yourself will not bring him back.”

Despite himself, John looked stricken; Mycoft was not one to mince words, and it seemed even in a situation as delicate as this he cut straight to the bone without hesitation. The pain threatened to bleed through from the shock of it and it took all that John had to tamp it down, burying it deep and out of sight. He would not allow such weakness to show in front of the man who had damned his own brother to his death. His jaw stiffened.

“I never said that it _would_ ,” he ground out quietly, “And that’s not what this is about. It was what he _asked_ of me, Mycroft, and the least I can do is honor his memory no matter how ludicrous a request it may have been. I’ll not see him vanish like this, not after all he’s done for London — for the _world_. If they think I was a factor in his so-called fake life, they’ll be after me in no time. Besides, I think it’s the least you can do, what with your role in all this.”

During the warmth of the daylight hours, when he was feeling somewhat stronger and more in control of his mundane life at his mundane job doing the most mundane of things, John found it easy to pin all of this on Sherlock’s older brother. If Mycroft had never told Moriarty those damning things, Sherlock could have never been discredited. If Mycroft had killed the man then and there rather than release him, they never would have had this face-off with him. If Mycroft had warned them sooner, they could have had more time to put a stop to Moriarty’s plans. When the sun was high in the sky, John could hold Mycroft accountable for everything wrong that had happened to him.

It was only at night, in his one room flat all alone, that John would stare in the mirror and think, _If only I had stayed with him, this never would have happened_. Those were never good nights. Then again, most nights weren’t.

“You owe us this much,” he continued, one hand fisted against his thigh beneath the table. “You owe _him_.” The sigh Mycroft gave was low and almost put-upon in nature. John’s hackles rose straight away, his nails biting fiercely into his palm in an attempt to ground himself.

“Listen to me, John,” he began, speaking slowly as though anything more would be too much for the doctor to take in, “This is not what Sherlock would have wanted, and I don’t believe it prudent to frivolously waste my resources simply to ease your conscience over something that wasn’t your-”

John’s hand that had been previously attending to his coffee slammed down on the table so hard it nearly upended his cup, chair skidding back with enough force to send it clattering to the floor as he stood abruptly. The outburst immediately silenced the din of conversations at all the tables around them.

“Don’t you _dare_ try to tell me what he would have wanted,” he hissed through gritted teeth, hands braced against the table. “Don’t you _dare!!_ ”

Mycroft appeared unperturbed by his trembling rage, rather unlike the silent onlookers around them. If anything he regarded the furious soldier with a look that bordered on pity, the way one might gaze upon a bleeding and wounded animal baring its fangs from a corner. Were he not so in need of the other’s help John would have definitely slugged him. For a moment the bureaucrat glanced outside towards a CCTV camera angled their way — before letting out a sigh and gesturing for John to have a seat, appearing to relent.

“You’re frightening the clientele, Doctor Watson,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair. John stood there a moment longer, shaking with the force of his anger, before regaining enough control of himself to pick up his chair and sit himself heavily atop it once again with arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“I’ll do as you ask,” Mycroft told him with a frown, “but you must be absolutely certain this is what you want to do. Changing these records back after they’ve been made public - which I assume you wish to do - will not be an easy task, even for me. The repercussions can and will be severe if you are not careful. Do you understand?”

The agreement seemed to ease the strain in John’s shoulders at least a little as he let out a breath, relief written in his eyes.

“Yes, fine, of course,” he replied almost dismissively, clearly not concerned by Mycroft’s warning. “I’ve already put a great deal of thought into this, so don’t think I haven’t already weighed all that. I know exactly what I’m doing.” 

Mycroft studied him in his dissecting way once again, not even blinking for what felt like an uncomfortably long time.

“Yes,” he noted finally, tone grave, “I believe you do.” His hands rested back on the table, folding together easily as he lifted his chin to regard his companion down the bridge of his nose. “Very well. Draw up what exactly you need modified and I-”

Immediately John dug into the inside pocket of his jacket, placing a folded piece of paper onto the table and sliding it across.

“Already done. Everything I need is there; just tell me when you’ve done it.”

Another curious raise of an eyebrow. John did not miss seeing that expression at all; at least when Sherlock made him feel like a lesser creature he still showed a decided appreciation for his presence. There had been a friendship there that made this feeling of smallness worthwhile.

“I see,” was all the elder Holmes said, plucking up the folded paper and sliding it into the breast pocket of his suit coat. “It shouldn’t take more than a week, at most. I’ll be in touch.”

Their business concluded, Mycroft rose to his feet and gave John a final once-over with an unreadable expression. A moment passed before he added, “Do see that you at least get a proper night’s sleep at some point. You’re a doctor; you know the sedatives necessary to help you through it.”

“Just text me when it’s done,” came John’s exasperated reply, lips pulled into a taut line that thoroughly conveyed his desire to be finished and away from the other man. Mycroft’s smile didn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.

“Do take care, John. Sherlock would want you to be well.”

Knowing full well that the doctor had no interest in gratifying him with anything beyond a smouldering glare, he tilted his head in a silent farewell before placing enough banknotes on the table to cover the cost of John’s coffee and a suitable tip before the other could refuse it. Another pale mockery of a smile was given before he turned on a heel and strode out at a speed that spoke of both leisure and purpose all at once; this was not a man who rushed or permitted the world around him to move at a pace he did not deem acceptable. 

Sherlock had walked like that once. John forced himself not to think about it.

With Mycroft gone John was acutely aware of the eyes of the cafe patrons upon him; it was definitely time to go. Rising to his feet and pushing in his chair, he made a hasty retreat from the cafe out into the drizzle of rain and the miserable overcast sky looming above him. It was an odd comfort to have the weather properly unpleasant; it felt as though London itself still mourned the loss of the man that had loved it most. It made John feel less alone somehow. He made no effort to rush on the walk home even as the drizzle worked itself into proper rain, soaking through his coat and plastering his fringe against his forehead. By the time he scaled the stairway to his second floor flat he was thoroughly drenched, and once inside he at least had the presence of mind to shuck off the sopping mess of clothing to stuff it in the laundry and change into something dry before becoming too absorbed in his thoughts to care.

It had been a good day - comparative to the days he’d been having over the last few months, at the least - and John felt better than he had in what felt like a lifetime... which, in a sense, it was. What he’d had before was a past life, something untouchable that he’d never again be able to reach; this was all he had now, a future of chasing shadows and being truly aware of just how alone one person could be. Before Sherlock he’d at least been somewhat unaware — he’d never tasted the thrill of a case and the presence of an infuriating man that became the center of his universe. Now, all he could feel was the emptiness that had been left behind from a life he’d not properly appreciated until it was gone.

There was no returning to those better times, but at least he could do for Sherlock what he had asked of him, though with his own creative twist. The tabloids had had a field day with the so-called proof of Sherlock’s elaborate deception during the period when he was still hot news. John’s attempts to prove his innocence had been met with open contempt or, worse yet, pity for the one so easily duped by the so-called fraud detective; with a new game plan in mind he would embrace their lies and make them his own until all thought of Sherlock Holmes was pushed aside to focus on the deceiver that was John Watson. Through this they would have a better meal to hunt, allowing John to draw their hateful eyes away from his late friend to focus their time and energy on faster, warmer prey. No more would the “fake genius” be left alone to the vultures of the media until even his marrow had been sucked dry. While he could not go back and stand beside Sherlock at his death, John could still guard his memory from harm, no matter what the cost.

Perhaps then he could find some peace.

Settling down in front of his laptop, John pushed the screen up and open before logging into his blog account for the first time since he’d made what he considered to be his final post. It seemed to mock him from the brightness of his screen, making his stomach twist at the sight of it.

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._

“That hasn’t changed,” he assured the screen quietly, one hand on the worn keys before him. Sherlock had made the wear and tear all the worse, always snatching it up and hacking in just to get on John’s nerves, basking in the attention like a cat knocking books from the shelves just for the joy of being scolded. He missed scolding him. He missed it all. “No matter what I say from here on in, I swear that hasn’t-”

His voice broke, and for a moment he could do nothing more than hold his head in his hands and will his trembling to stop. He was stronger than this; he wouldn’t stop, not now when he could finally find redemption. It was only the beginning and he would see this through to the end. With a final shuddering breath he straightened his back, placing fingers to keyboard to begin drafting his new post.

_My name is John Watson, and I have a confession to make: Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, and moreover, I am a criminal and a liar._

Nothing would stop him now; he would take this road until he reached the darkness beyond.


End file.
